


Of Facebook and Scents

by vvindyvvillovv



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A lot of Facebook talk, M/M, Monster of the Week, Pre-Relationship, Will the Pack ever catch a break? Absolutely not wtf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 15:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15003557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vvindyvvillovv/pseuds/vvindyvvillovv
Summary: Stiles thinks that the way Derek Hale smells is a problem. He'd like it to be dealt with as soon as possible, please.





	Of Facebook and Scents

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second ever fic that I've written. The first one didn't go so well because I was overly ambitious and went straight for a multi-chapter so my fear of commitment kicked in. I regularly go back to it but I never post what I've written. So i'm starting off again small, going for shorter pieces and easing myself into it and I have dozens of ideas stowed away in a password protected note on my phone and I really can't wait to write them all, so. 
> 
> Here it is. The start of whatever I'm doing. 
> 
> This isn't Beta'd so anything that's wrong is entirely my fault.
> 
> I'll pretend not to be scared and yeah, I hope you all enjoy. Or don't. Whatever you so wish.

The way Derek Hale smells is a problem.

Initially clean, smelling like fresh soap and pureness but within the right proximity – to Stiles’ human nose, anyhow, which was close enough to make him turn into even more of a blubbering, stumbling mess – the scent of a light, woody aftershave that would violate his nostrils in the most pleasantly wonderful way absolutely possible.

It’s one of the best scents on a person that Stiles has probably ever smelled in all of his eighteen years, three months and six days on earth.

But anyway. A problem. A seriously serious issue that has to be handled preferably in the autumn of 11’ when that wonderful scent was mixed with that of rotting and blood and the impending fear cutting through his arm with an animal bone saw. Round about then should be good.

“Hey, dude,” Stiles says with an airy laugh, grasping at the edges of Peter’s old laptop – creepy that it used to belong to the 2.0? Entirely, but when he was planning on _throwing it away in the trash,_ Stiles had happily taken it off of his hands, after all, who was he to reject a free MacBook that was free entirely of charge? He could forget that it once belonged to the creepy rebirth of Peter Hale – twisting it towards Scott and highlighting the very specific Facebook post. “The French exchange from Senior Year is pregnant!” he lets out a soft ‘ _heh_ ’ and gauges Scott’s reaction, although apparently this isn’t as interesting to him and he keeps his nose very uncharacteristically nuzzled into the 1,000-year-old book that would shed dust and other weird shedding’s when a page was turned. “Scott? Did you hear me? The French exchange from –“

“Is this important, Stiles?” Scott pleads, warm brown eyes going wide with curiosity. He looks genuinely torn to be looking away from that very obviously _enthralling_ read and Stiles frowns. Maybe if Scott enjoys the book so much the book should be Scott’s best bro instead of Stiles. Stiles sniffs a little indignantly. “Can we get back to –“ Scott shakes his leather-bound new bestie suggestively and Stiles can’t help but groan, jerking his head in a very vague nod and turns back to his laptop.

He scrolls down his feed absently. He can see the occasional post from Erica and the tag from Isaac to Boyd on some post that probably only the two of them actually find funny or vice versa, there’s a few cheesy posts from his fellow classmates that makes him roll his eyes a little too dramatically, and every now and again there’s a post written in Polish from his relatives from across the extended pond that he has no idea what it’s saying or the tone, but he gives it a supportive like anyway. Let it not be said that Stiles is not a master of family bonding.

(He could already envision it, some grand reunion of some sorts – maybe his Polish family would fly over to celebrate Stiles becoming the youngest Sherriff in all of existence? – his grandmother would embrace it and congratulate him, say how proud she is, how he’s always been her favourite despite not seeing him since the death of his mother, and then a never-met-before-cousin would light up, say with intense Polish happiness “you’re Stiles! You like my Facebook posts! Thanks, man!” and Stiles would nod, and say “hello! Where is the bathroom?” because that all he knew how to say in Polish these days).

He taps his fingernails rhythmically against the laptop, makes a mental reminder to cut those nails when the opportunity arises, and frowns at the sudden thought that flew through his mind without so much of a knock on the door of Stiles’ brain: _does Derek Hale have Facebook?_

If he did, he and Stiles certainly weren’t friends – he would remember if they were, he’d be able to remember the celebration he would certainly give and be embarrassed about for about the next eighty years.

His Pack would be, because, after all, what is a Pack without being Facebook official friends? Not a Pack at all, exactly. However, Derek’s Pack are Facebook fiends, never really off it and constantly making their presence aware. Derek’s name has never been intertwined with any of that. But would Isaac’s head even be on his body if he so much as even started to tag Derek in something he found amusing that he likely would think that Derek would like, too? Isaac would be headless. No doubt about it. And Erica, through the many pictures she indulges in posting many times, wouldn’t ever dare let another god-like specimen in the way of being considered the most god-like. So she just wouldn’t post pictures with him in them, or make sure the ones she did post captured him looking revolting. Which would never happen because he’s _Derek Hale_.

Taking a cautionary look over his shoulder to make sure that someone – _Erica_ – wasn’t staring at him intently to then make fun of him for the next fifty summers for typing Derek Hale’s name into the search bar, Stiles begins to type.

“What are you doing?” The voice is low down to his ear, deep, rumbly and shakes Stiles straight to his core, evoking the least-manliest meeping noise in the history of meeping noises. He flails, too, because when is his life just not the picture of absolute perfection?

He turns quickly to look over his shoulder, met with heated brows that look concerned and incredibly angry, because when are they not angry, really. Overcome with the embarrassment of being potentially caught, Stiles’ eyes flick back to the computer screen and up towards the search bar.

 _Dety8wfw_.

A course of relief surges through his body and he can’t quite believe his new-found luck.

“What are you doing?” Derek presses again, not retracting the close space that both Derek’s lack of personal awareness and Stiles’ nervous shiftiness has left them with.

He can’t answer, his throat running dry and his mind spinning out of whack that he doesn’t even know if his mouth remembers words or the English language.

He always looks even better up close, like when you see a really attractive piece of art and when you get close you really start to notice extra details that you’d like to map out with your tongue and keep a visual memory forever because the paint looks even better up close, like it was made by all of the greats. And the smell, fuck, the smell is even better, not that old lead paint that you can get sort of head high from, but the really good plastic smelling paint that you’d get when you were younger that smells actually rather good – and Stiles is going to drop the painting analogy and get to the bottom line. Derek Hale is incredibly attractive and smells absolutely divine, Stiles may way to lick him all over and devour him like a Sunday dinner because he’s a terrible human. And he also belongs in a museum or an art gallery.

Derek’s eyebrows jerk upwards, his silent way of saying _do you have an answer to my question?_

Stiles opens his mouth. Shuts it again and then opens it again. “Um,” and he closes his mouth once more, shaking his head.

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose like a resigned father and lets out a long sigh. “People are being turned into animals, Stiles. Mr Harris? He has the limbs of a spider. The librarian? She and her dog have switched heads.”

Against his will and against any sense of self-preservation he actually possesses, Stiles’ lips quirk with amusement.

The huff of frustration that tickles his eyebrows lets him know that his amusement had not gone unnoticed. “You need to be looking at the Beastiary! Not – Facebook!”

Stiles doesn’t answer, partially because he may have developed some obscure kinks over the years and being yelled at by someone as Grecian God as Derek Hale is _definitely one of them_ , and also because whenever Beastiary is mentioned all he can think of is bestiality thanks to the warped minds of Scott and Allison. He moves his head back, probably reveals all of his chins, and breaths in that close and personal smell of Derek. And his mind just fucks off.

 _“_ You smell –“ Stiles bites down harshly on his tongue before he can say something embarrassing like _really good_ or _like something I want to wipe my tongue on_.  So he just leaves it there, him accusing Derek of smelling and Derek taking a small step backwards and blinking rapidly like he’s trying to comprehend exactly what would possess Stiles to ever accuse him of something so obviously fake.

He expects to get growled at, an onslaught of offensive comments as Derek brings up his guard, trying to mask the very dull pang of offence he’d feel but that doesn’t happen. Well, Stiles will never know if it was ever going to happen, because the front door to the McCall house is flinging open with such aggression that the entire room – so just Stiles, Derek, Scott, and Erica hiding off in the kitchen – is ripped from whatever Stiles has pushed them into and are now focusing intently on Isaac.

Isaac who has, instead of normal hands and human fingers, the hooves of a horse.

“Fucking Christ,” Derek lets out on a breath. Unable to contain himself any longer, Stiles giggles and giggles and can’t quite seem to stop.

/ / /

Isaac and his hooves are carted to the loft where all of the… _creations_ are being hoarded per Derek’s request. Isaac refuses to even look in Stiles’ direction which is really a blessing rather than a curse, because now he doesn’t have to look at the scarves he wears or the sunglasses he keeps on his head that push his curls from his face.

The true punishment, however, is Derek forcing Stiles to stay back and “make sure nobody steps out of line”. But Stiles is smarter than that, he immediately clocked on that this was a backwards way for Derek to get back at him for professing that he smells. And maybe a little bit for laughing hysterically at the _actual hooves Isaac has_.

The joke is on them, however, because Stiles gets to revel in watching Mr Harris on his back, looking forlorn, constipated and infuriated all at once on Derek’s sofa, little spider legs and arms waving frantically. He doesn’t say much, but when Stiles glides past with a shit eating grin he writhes and mutters angrily under his breath.

The librarian and her dog quite honestly scare the living hell out of him so he keeps a distance, watching Doris lick at her glass of water with her now dog tongue and dog head features and her dog, Snuffles, licks at the floor and most surfaces with his incredibly human tongue and human facial features. It’s all very dystopian and Stiles actually rather hates it – and is yet also incredibly mesmerised? He doesn’t know and doesn’t really want too, either.

Isaac sticks to sitting near the top of the spiral stairs on his own, hiding, most likely, and he definitely can’t be blamed. Guy’s got _literal_ hooves.

Slowly, over the course of a few hours, Derek’s loft becomes a DJ short of an actual rave, the number of people stacking up so much that Derek resigns himself to sticking to Stiles’ side, using his biceps and other various well-built pieces of his body to scare the large crowd into submission as they start to get rowdy, demanding to know where the Pack were with their progress on finding the sick individual who would dare do this to them. Neither Derek nor Stiles dare tell them that they don’t even know the branch of supernatural creature who is doing it. It’s for their own good.

Doris barks harshly in their direction and Snuffles drools a little.

“Fucking Christ,” Derek murmurs for the second time that day, looking forlornly at the array of misfits who are sprawling over his furniture, eating his food, and drooling on his floors.

“Fucking Christ,” Stiles affirms with a stern nod.

The seconds they spend standing in silence, watching the utter catastrophe that’s a good chunk of the residents of Beacon Hills try and get used to their new animal parts without freaking out bleeds slowly into minutes and with each tick of the clock Stiles can only feel himself get antsier, the unsaid works of _you smell really fucking brilliant_ itching under his skin. It’s what he imagines being thrust into an ant hill would feel like – entirely unpleasant, scratchy and unnerving.

“I don’t,” he spits out, and if he looks nearly as uncomfortable as he certainly feels then it would indeed be something of an issue. Stiles swallows thickly, uncrossing and re-crossing his arms, feeling the burn of Derek’s eyes on the side of his face. He can only imagine the intensity setting that his brows would be turned up to. “Earlier, what I said – I don’t.”

Better than nothing, he supposes. If Derek was looking for an apology (something he had made no real indication that he was actually looking for, but if he had called Stiles stinky then he’d one hundred per cent be knocking down his door just to get one) then he’d have to read between the lines, because apologising isn’t actually that easy when all you want to do is retire to bed, slink under the covers and then weep for years on end because the slightest sliver of a chance you ever thought you had scoring anything with Derek Hale is now gone, gone, gone because you’re an idiot with very poor brain to mouth communication.  

Derek isn’t actually even saying anything which actually makes it worse so now he actually would like to weep for thirty years straight and hope that by the time he re-emerges Derek will have forgotten everything about him.

And then he is speaking and it kind of makes it worse, so really the entire situation is just a large plot to make Stiles want to transcend into an alternate universe where he’s a lonesome, happy little snail.

“Personal preference, I guess,” is what Derek ends up saying with a rather tight shrug that Stiles can see from the corner of his eyes and he can’t seem to stop himself from letting out an incredulous _what_.

Derek sighs heavily like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders just from this simple conversation and he probably genuinely believes he does. “Look,” he turns, almost robotically and thrusts forward a hand to grip at Stiles’ shoulder, nudging him to turn around, too, and the eye contact isn’t something that they can avoid because damn it all, Derek Hale has the nicest eyes. “It doesn’t make sense, okay? I mean, I’m surrounded by ‘wolves in close capacity far more than I am with humans and our senses are ridiculously high so nice smelling cologne actually makes our eyes water.”

The fact that he is even going out of his way to defend his scent is – it’s unbelievable and the red tinge of embarrassment or something else like that that highlights his cheeks sort of makes Stiles want to wrap him in a hug forever and tell him good things are coming and spoon-feed him copious amounts of soup.

“I’m not about to wear something that you’ll like the smell of and make everyone else suffer because that’s actually unethical, and for you to just _assume_ –“

“Do you have Facebook?”

Derek stops, brows arching downwards as he stares at Stiles like he’s just done something downright outrageous, which maybe he did because really there is no correlation between his social media habits and the way he smells but for Stiles, it just makes the most sense. In fact, for Derek not to assume that it does, too, is the outrageous aspect of this entire conversation. Obviously.

“What?”

“Facebook. Social media site that was created by Mark Zuckerberg, has complete and total control over everyone’s lives – the home of outdated minion memes.”

Derek’s lips spread out into a thin, perplexed line. “I know what Facebook is, Stiles.”

“Well?” he prods, raising his brows. His brow game will never be as impressive as Derek’s, he doesn’t think he has the hair power to even come close to it, but they get the job done and Derek is sighing with resignation.

“Yeah, of course I do.” He’s still looking sixty shades of confused and Stiles think he looks like a petulant child and kind of really loves it. “You all need to stop treating me like I’m some incompetent old man who’s never seen a computer –“

“And I think you smell really nice, actually.”

The look on his face alone tells him that he’s probably given Derek whiplash.

He’s waiting for some longwinded ramble on how Derek really doesn’t understand Stiles’ thought process and how he’d just _love_ to take a single peek into the inner workings of his brain – if he even has one – to see where and how he manages to connect two things together like the Civil War and the debate on whether water is wet. Because that’s usually Derek, that’s Derek down to an absolute T, it’s what he’s done each time without fail and for him to go against his nature so suddenly would be actually inane because Derek is a creature of habit.

But when has Stiles’ life ever actually been _that_ straightforward?

Never.

The answer is never.

After all, he is sharing a room with a werewolf, an actual centaur who used to be his sixth-grade teacher, his old chemistry teacher who has the limbs of a spider and his dad’s new deputy has gull wings spouting from his back and actually has a beak.

“I think you smell nice, too.” And there’s a softness to Derek’s voice that Stiles has never heard before but fuck, he’d love to hear it again, all the time, on constant repeat, and to match there’s a very small, incredibly personal and even rather intimate smile.

Stiles can’t quite believe it so he blinks, imagining his eyelids are the shutters of a camera lense and tucks the mental image away into the folders of his mind for safe keeping.

He opens his mouth because now that it’s been captured, it really is time for his lack of a filter to kick in a totally ruin the moment.

Only that doesn’t get to happen, because the loft doors are sliding open ferociously, the look is gone from Derek’s face and all attention goes to Erica – probably exactly how she had wanted it – who’s looking all types of glorious, ecstatic and incredibly violent with blood dripping from her mouth two shades darker than the red that paints her lips, her eyes glowing hot amber, her teeth sharp and pointy and her nails elongated into claws, clutching a still-beating heart.

“Killed it!” she proclaims loudly and someone over in the corner retches into a bucket and several others look away in haste. “Was a fuckin’ witch. Go figure. Morell says that when the heart stops beating everything will be reversed.”

Derek and Stiles stare at the drops of blood that pool on the floor by Erica’s feet.

“Fucking Christ,” Stiles winces and jerks his gaze to be anywhere other than the truly upsetting and actually rather demonic scene before him.

“Fucking Christ,” Derek repeats, stepping forward to cart Erica back into the hallway, leaving behind him the soft lingering smell of him and fuck. Such a fucking problem.


End file.
